Landlocked in the Port of Leith
They measure their evening's progress
by the high tide lines around their pints,
talking of unmapped oceans they'll never know
till shaking like dinghies caught in a tempest,
above them the moon a port-hole to clear skies,
they map out their rolling passage home,
unaware that these streets they know so well
are the only straits where monsters still
dwell.